


A Bedtime Story

by cathgotyourtongue



Category: Bleach
Genre: A bit OOC I guess, Fluff, Implied past IchiHime, M/M, but they still have a civil relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 06:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14514396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathgotyourtongue/pseuds/cathgotyourtongue
Summary: Grimmjow meets the newest member of the Kurosaki family.





	A Bedtime Story

**Author's Note:**

> A trial fluff one-shot! English is not my first language, but I tried my best. Feel free to point out any mistakes!

Travelling through the Garganta has always been easy for the likes of him.

His sonido carried him through the dark void, his feet landing effortlessly on solidified spirit particles with every step. The journey didn’t require much thought, so he let his mind wander a bit as his body glided naturally through the vast emptiness.

It’s been ten years since the last war. Ten years since he bid the green robe, striped hat-wearing Shinigami goodbye, taking the victory as a fulfillment of their agreement: a chance to live freely in the deserts of Hueco Mundo. He ruled their world along with his fellow former Espada without any disturbance from the Soul Society.

It was a sweet deal, but with most of their army annihilated in the past two wars, he was stuck with the two prissy Tres Espada and what remained of the fracciones. It was all fun and games until the two women noticed the rapid decrease in their forces, and Grimmjow was forced to stop conducting his sparring sessions on easy preys.

Yes, sparring with the two women was fun, but it was getting kind of annoying how easily they can throw him down. He was not weak by any means; Ten years of training earned him a much-deserved Segunda Etapa, but that did not mean the Tres had not gotten stronger as well. Getting thrown down by women was not good for his ego.

So now he’s gliding through the swirling nothingness of the Garganta. Knowing full well that on the other end is someone actually worth losing to.

That was _If_ he loses.

 

* * *

 

 

The sky opened up exactly where he wanted it to.

It was night in the world of the living as well, the abandoned streets were lit sparsely by dim yellow street lamps. The Kurosaki Clinic’s signage brightened the street like a beacon to Grimmjow’s bloodlust. The lights shining through the windows told him the humans there were still awake, so he carefully reigned in his reiatsu. A smile slowly creeped into his face as he imagined the orange-haired brat’s reaction to his arrival.

He kept quiet, like any predator should be, as he stalked around the house to search for an opening. He saw it quickly; the curtains in the only room in the house with closed lights moved slightly with the wind, a tell-tale sign that its window was left ajar. Perfect. He lowered himself gradually until he was hovering over the opening, stepping on the ledge and pushing the glass barrier aside slowly.

A quick jump and he landed noiselessly unto the wooden floor. He grinned. He had entered the enemy’s territory without a problem. Now all that was left was to hunt down the brat in his most vulnerable state. Of course, he preferred battling him in full power, but he wasn’t about to pass the chance to see the probably horrified kid piss his pants at the sight of the former Sexta Espada in his house. He’d grab him by the throat, dragging him outside through the walls of his own home. He’d feel the boy struggle to breathe under his grasp, and he’d crush it even further. He’d keep going until he sees the life drain out of him through his eyes, those eyes that he hated and craved so much at the same time, until he could feel the brat’s unworldly reiatsu seep from his body, eager to defend itself, eager to fight; to kill. The arrancar would unsheathe his sword to slowly rake it through his chest, mark his body the same way his Getsuga Tenshou marked his…

“Who’s there?”

A falsetto from behind him shook him from his violent musings, freezing him on the spot before he could make it to the bedroom door.

He heard a soft click and a dim light shone through the room. Slowly, almost dramatically, Grimmjow turned around, fearful of who caught him red-handed, hoping against all odds that this little speedbump wouldn’t ruin Operation: Kill Kurosaki.

He was confused for a moment as he saw nothing pop up immediately in his vision. A slight movement, however, caused him to look a little farther to his left, to the bed, where a small orange-topped head peaked from beneath a fluffy blanket.

 _Fluffy_. Where had he learned that word?

The small head rose from the bed to reveal the child’s pajama clad form until the hem of the blanket folded around his small torso. “Are—are you one of Papa’s friends?” the small voice was hoarse with sleep.

Grimmjow watched the… child, rub his eyes with his fists. He stood there dumbly, his normally sharp brain taking the scene before him with unbearable sluggishness.

The child yawned, and still he did not move. He felt his eyes widened, though, the same time the child’s mouth did. Large brown eyes blinked up at him curiously, and once again Grimmjow wondered why in the world was his brain not functioning properly.

He might have been staring for too long now, because the small child piped up again. “Papa’s in the clinic. One of my friends fell from the see-saw today. He’s very busy putting band-aids on his boo-boos.”

Grimmjow didn’t know what the fuck some of those words meant but he did know now where Kurosaki was. There’s clearly one thing to do: climb back out of the window, proceed to beating the brat to the ground and forget his encounter with the tiny version of his arch-nemesis.

He released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He turned again to face the window, ready to jump back out when—

“Um—”

With one foot on the windowsill Grimmjow turned to glower at the kid, responding automatically with a grunt.

This child didn’t look fazed at all. Instead, he reached for the bedside table, tiny fingers closing in on the thin binder of a book before holding it up for the destructive arrancar to see.

Those wide, innocent, brown doe eyes glimmered with the lamp’s dim light. “Papa didn’t get to read me a bedtime story.”

Grimmjow remembered things from the human world. Not memories per se, but he knew the basics of things. How he knew them, he didn’t know, but his life was too much of an anomaly that he had since stopped asking stupid questions.

Not a lot of people thought highly of him, but he was smart. He was sharp, and he could easily discern problems based on the situation at hand. Now he was looking at the little Kurosaki—his nemesis’s offspring, he meant—and he knew immediately what it was asking for.

“Ain’t gonna fuckin’ tuck you in bed, kid. You’re on your own.”

Those all too familiar wide eyes looked up at him like he didn’t understand what he just said, and Grimmjow could pinpoint the exact millisecond when he finally did.

The round face tilted up to look at his Papa’s friend, and then down to his book, and then up again at the mean man in his bedroom, and then back down to the story about a puppy and his friend fox. It was supposed to make him fall back asleep. He felt his little chin tremble, he just wanted a bed time story—

“Oy, kid—”

—It wasn’t going to take that long, and the blue haired man didn’t have to say hurtful things. His tiny fists were starting to tremble, and the man at the foot of his bed by the window was slowly turning into blurry blobs, he wanted to scream but his throat was starting to clamp up and he was so _angry_ —

Kazui found himself wrapped in a tight embrace, a quiet but forceful and slightly irritated shush keeping him from opening his mouth.

“ _Fine_ ,” the blue haired meanie growled and Kazui felt the man’s chest vibrate against his face. “No one will ever know, got that?” He looked down just in time to see the kid nod eagerly up at him. He sighed. The fact that his anger was pointed at himself rather than at the orange haired child in his arms confused him to no end. “Just… just _shut up_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ichigo entered his home through the clinic’s back door and instantly knew something was terribly wrong. The Shinigami pass in his pants didn’t alert him about any hollow attack, he had always been shit at sensing reiatsu and now that he has a child he finally realized how important it was to protect his family. His siblings were safe at the university now, and Orihime was supposed to be back at her apartment after dropping off Kazui earlier that afternoon, so she’s safe too, thankfully.  But that only left one other family member at risk.

His anger flared, and he found himself in Shinigami robes in an instant.

The reiatsu was familiar. He had fought this person before, only now it was significantly stronger. The spiritual pressure was mild but unstable, it flickered around the edges as if it was in distress. He heard the faint clank of a cup on his granite kitchen counter, along with a quiet sniff.

Suddenly the wild reiatsu no longer felt that threatening anymore.

He reigned in his anger and tried to sense the only reiatsu signature he had ever mastered sensing in almost thirteen years of Shinigami duty. Kazui’s reiryoku burned bright in his mind, calm and steady. He was safe. Ichigo sighed, relieved. He sheathed his swords and slowly entered the kitchen to make himself known to the uninvited visitor.

The moment he saw a downturned head of baby-blue hair, he stopped in his tracks. Grimmjow didn’t look up when owner of the house entered the room. His arms were spread, hands gripping the edge of the counter, the man’s large body leaning on them for support. Downcast eyes stared through the cup sitting in front of him, his mind obviously lost in something deeper than whatever it was that was inside Ichigo’s favorite coffee mug.

“Grimmjow,” he started. But there was no reply. No gesture of acknowledgment, and it irked Ichigo to no end. He tried again.

“Grimmjow—”

“Not now, Kurosaki.”

Ichigo felt his anger flare up again. He dared trespass into his home, threatening the safety of his son, disturbing his tiring but peaceful day with his mere presence, all just to tell him off?

He took a deep breath to calm himself. A distracted Grimmjow was better than a destructive Grimmjow.

He moved closer to the arrancar, deciding that it was safe so long as he didn’t hover too much. He leaned on the other leg of the U-shaped counter and tilted his head in curiosity. “What happened to you?” He asked softly.

No reply.

“Do—do you want to talk about it?”

Still no reply, but he shifted so his weight rested on his right leg as he turned to look away.

“—T’was messed up, Kurosaki.” He mumbled, raking his fingers through his unruly hair, like he had already been doing it a few times before he had even entered the room.

Ichigo heard him alright, but he was still confused.

“Grimmjow… what are you talking about?”

“The stupid book!” Grimmjow whisper-shouted, pointing at the corner of the room. “Fuck—it was so fucked up.”

His eyes followed the direction of the man’s ire and until he found himself staring at the open trash bin. Right on top sat his son’s favorite bedtime story, a story book version of one of the best classical cartoon movies of all time. Ichigo put his hands on his hips as he snorted derisively. “You’re acting like _that_ over _The Fox and the Hound_? Grimmjow, it's a story for _children_.”

The Sexta was up in his face in less than a second later, fist gripping his robes tight as he pushed him back into the wall behind him. Ichigo looked at the angry man’s reddened nose, his supposedly murderous glare was softened by puffy eyelids.

“Fuck you, Kurosaki! Children shouldn’t be reading shit like that!” Grimmjow yelled to his face.

Ichigo held a finger to his lips when he spoke. “Shh, you’ll wake him up.” He whispered.

“Fuck you, Kurosaki! Children shouldn’t be reading shit like that!” Grimmjow repeated, his voice lowered to an angry whisper, trying to sound intimidating and failing miserably.

Ichigo wanted to snort, wanted to laugh at this violent threat of hollow who had, for some reason, made his way into his child’s room, read his son a children’s book, probably tucked him into bed while he was at it, found himself distressed enough to throw said book into the trash and bawled so hard his eyelids were pink.

His self-preservation instincts kept him from mocking the Sexta. So, he just stood there, satisfied with just letting Grimmjow ride his emotions out, even if it meant bruises right where the large fist on his chest along with the rest of his muscle clad body pressed him hard against the wall.

It was never smart to mock an Espada of destruction, even if said Espada had snot running down his nose.

Too bad. Ichigo _sucked_ at making smart decisions.

 


End file.
